Querencia
by loading-creativity
Summary: England woke up to the smell of lilac, a pounding headache and France's soft snores. FrUK. Sequel to "Sillage".


Warnings: Slash; mentions of alcohol consumption.

_Disclaimer: Axis Power Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya._

_Suggestion: Listen to"Bless the broken road*" by Rascal Flatts. Maybe. Oh! Also, not edited._

~o~

Querencia

_A place from which one's strength is drawn, where one feels at home; the place where you are your most authentic self._

~o~

He woke up to the smell of lilac, a pounding headache and France's soft snores. The familiarity of it all was comforting enough for the usually uptight Englishman to allow himself to slither a lit bit longer under the covers. He remembers very little of the previous night, as customary after a night of heavy drinking. But his mind evokes enough: gentle hands, a lulling voice, a seemingly bittersweet song – _and a confession_.

The first three were common-place. France always took good care of him during these annual encounters. His calloused hands were gentle as they handled him, and he spoke with ease, using many endearments while addressing England because he knew that the Brit secretly _did_ like them. He sang to distract him, or maybe put him to sleep. He was caring. England always assumed France acted this way because of their long – spanning on millennia – friendship, strange and awkward is it might be sometimes. Or out of charity for the many times they were together in a more intimate fashion.

The confession was new, though. And the Briton knew he wasn't supposed to have heard it at all. _He knew_. France probably thought he had been asleep; maybe even half-way through an alcoholic coma at that point. England wished he had never heard the damned words. But he can't simply forget them either, as much as he yearned that such feat was feasible. Truth be told, even if he _could_ –somehow – forget such words, he probably wouldn't. It would be like running away, and running away was something England seldom did. If _ever_.

Furthermore, it was _France_. And as much as he hated to admit it, England _did_ care for him. The frog was a big part of his life. Their histories were practically tied together from the start. Bullocks! _The first King of England had been French_! And France was his first friend, although at the time he was called Gaul. And his first... England blushed. And then he closed his eyes tightly. He was as angry as he was embarrassed. _Bloody frog_. He was going to strangle him as soon as he could get up without puking his stomach's content.

Why did France have to go and mess everything up? Why couldn't he have kept his trap shut?

_"Are you ever going to see how much I care for you, Albion?"_

England took solace in the soft sheets, the cushy mattress and the fluffy pillow. In France's cologne's lingering smell, that seemed impregnated in all of the above, and in warmth of the room. He needed to _think_. Think fast and think _hard_.

And he did. He thought of France. And he thought of love and friendship and kinship and companionship, and _goddamnit_ he thought of freedom to be himself. He thought of his childhood. And he thought of blond hair and blue eyes. And a tunic that looked like a dress. And he thought of battles and wars and sadness and blood. He thought of adventure and of the New World. And he thought of pirates and the sea and sailing into the horizon. He thought of cannons and dreams. He thought of a little boy in a vast field. He thought of America. He thought of family. And he thought of France. Again. And again. _And again_. And then he went back to thinking of the little boy he met so many centuries ago_._ And he thought about how he had loved that little boy like he never loved another. How he opened his heart only to have it broken later on. And he thought of France twice more.

And then England understood he knew nothing of – or about – love. And the Englishman was left to wonder how France could possibly love him, and what was there to love about him anyway? He was an old grouchy man with huge eyebrows, awful temperament and a rich vocabulary. He had a penchant to bouts of depression. He cried a lot when he was drunk. And he drank a lot. He couldn't cook to save his life. _What_ was there to _love_?

And there _was_ the matter with America...

Snorting, the Englishman felt his eyes water. America. _As if_. The boy didn't give him the light of the day, and if England was being truthful... He didn't know what he wanted with – or of – America. He wanted to be close, but it drove him mad to be nearer the younger man for longer than a few hours. The blue-eyed boy was immature, childish and a_ boy_, still, for all of his big talk and power. England spent most of their time together criticizing the American and being made fun of in turn. He wanted America to look at him as if he was important, like he used to. He wanted them to be friends, and no more. He wanted his little brother. Or maybe he loved the man more than a brother should. But he wasn't certain. He wasn't quite so sure.

Never having truly experienced it, England wasn't sure what love was.

What was love? How a person knew when they were in love? What were the signs? There were signs? Was it what he felt for America? That little fondness that made his lips twitch upwards? The warmth in his heart when the American's blue eyes lit in happiness? The pride he felt when the boy came to the right conclusions or said something smart...? Was it a lover's kind of love? A parent's one? "Bloody hell!" England cursed, punching the pillow underneath his head before hiding his face on it.

This was much too difficult. And England wasn't even sure he was going about it the right way... Was there a right way to go about something like this...? He didn't know. That was the problem! He knew nothing! And he hated France for it. And he hated America. And he hated himself the most. England fought the urge to cry as hopelessness settled in.

Closing his eyes and breathing in deeply, he tried to regain his self-control. He was panicking, and that wouldn't help any. So he meditated, like India once taught him to do. Again, he thought about his situation and its main players. England thought about in both the grand scheme of things and to the minimal details. And then he realised something... France was there. Well, technically, he was in France's room. France, however, remained in the picture. He always had – always would. England would never give him up; not completely, not for anything. Neither would he do so with America. They were both parts of his life... _But_... In a different way.

America... America, he had to let go. Not literally, mind – figuratively. And he wasn't even speaking about the current America, but of the old one. The _colony_ one. England had to let go of whatever misconception he still had of America. He hadn't stopped treating America like a child, when he clearly wasn't one anymore. And... America didn't deserve it. Hurt as it might, America won his Independence fair and square (ignoring, obviously, the help the American got, and the fact England wasn't really trying).

He would call the American in a few days time, and –ugh – apologise. And try to start over again. Maybe they could be friends. Who knew? And if there was something else – which England started to doubt because, well, he was pretty sure he had been feeling a parent-kind of love if his conclusions had been anything to go by – England would tackle the problem down when – most likely _if_ – it came.

Concerning France... Well... What could he say? Being with him was like coming back home. It was... Right. Just _right_. And England really felt like he belonged when he was with the Frenchman. And he could be himself. England could act however he wanted, and it would still be okay. There were no restrictions. And that alone granted France a special place in his heart... _Not_ that he would ever tell the frog so.

Turning on his side, England stared at the sleeping form of his host. France was a mess; wrinkled clothes, bags under his eyes, the normally perfectly combed hair is disarray. England felt an inkling of guilty for being the main culprit behind the Frenchman's less than perfect state of dress. Nonetheless, the Brit smiled. _France was such an idiot sometimes_.

He didn't notice when sleepy azure eyes opened, so caught up in his own thoughts as he was. When a somewhat rough hand caressed his cheek, though, he looked up, startled. "France?" The Englishman asked bewildered, his lime-green eyes the size of saucers as he gaped openly at the Frenchman.

France, smiling gently, seemed as stunned as the Brit. "You stayed." The blue-eyed man croaked after a while. "You stayed."

If England didn't know better, he would say France was crying. If England didn't know better, he would say he was crying too, because his vision was suddenly very, very blurred. "Well, yes." He answered, half laughing half sobbing. "Someone had to make sure you wouldn't-"

The kiss was sweet. And desperate. England wondered for how long France had waited for that. Throwing his arms around the Frenchman's shoulder blades, the Englishman decided it didn't matter. It didn't matter, because they were here now.

Separating when the need for air became too big, England stopped France before he could go for the second hound. "Frog..." He said with uncertainty, reddening as he realised what he was about to say. "I... It's not like a love you or anything, ok?"

The tickling laugh assured England not a word he said had been believed. "_Bloody frog._" England cursed, but there was no bite to it, and he was grinning. And France swooped in for another kiss. To which England had no real objections.

Quietly, England confessed he did not know what he felt. "But it feels right. And I feel like I'm home when I'm with you. So... It... It can't be wrong... Rig-".

"It can't." France reassured him, smiling gently at the Brit. "Anyway, I will teach you everything I know about love, _oui_? And – if you come to the conclusion you love me – you can tell me then, _d'accord_?"

"France?" England called one last time as he was hugged close by the other blond. "I think I might be half-way there. To loving you I mean. I'm - wipe that stupid grin of your face!"

"I can't help it. You're so cute."

"Shut up. You're insufferable. I'm going home. _Bloody frog_, ruining everything..."

"_Non_! _Angleterre_! Come back! Oh, don't pout. Ow! No! _Angleterre_! _Chérie_!"

England only walked faster and faster as France continued to call his name. Soon, he was running. And the Frenchman was hot on his heels. "Stupid frog!" The Englishman screamed, laughing as they raced through the hallways of France's house.

"_Your_ stupid frog," France answered teasingly, his arms finally snaking their way around England as they fully stopped.

"Yeah... Mine." England agreed, kissing the Frenchman for all he was worth. "And bless the broken road that led me to you, frog."

~o~

**THE END**

A/N: So... That's it. I hope you guys enjoyed it! Thanks to all who reviewed/favorited/followed Sillage (or MMM). You guys are awesome - seriously. Without your support "Querencia" would never even exist. So thanks. And thanks. And thanks once again. I love you all. Hopefully, I will see you all on my next work, eh?


End file.
